


Sugar Daddy

by anne_ammons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Evil Author Day, F/M, Infidelity, Non-Consensual Touching, Sugar Daddy, if you didn't get that from the title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anne_ammons/pseuds/anne_ammons
Summary: An fascinating story, a handsome face, and deep, deep pockets -- Thorfinn Rowle is interested in Hermione Granger showing him around Muggle London, as he tries to make sense of his post-Azkaban life. But is that all he's interested in?And exactly how far will Hermione's Death Eater rehabilitation project go?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Thorfinn Rowle
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63
Collections: Evil Author Musings





	1. A Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends. It's another Evil Author Day offering. Fortunately, this one is about 70% written and is just waiting for a space in the schedule to finish up before it starts posting, probably April(?). In the meantime, here's Ch 1 as a preview.
> 
> Note - if you've read the beginning of Clever, you'll recognize Hermione's bookstore. This fic beat its way out as I was writing that. All of a sudden, I looked down and Thorfinn had emerged! I had to stop and tease them apart before doing anything else. I think my writing style has changed a bit since I wrote this part of the story, but I also don't plan to rewrite it, so bear with me in this un-betaed adventure. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think!

Irrepertus was a curious little bookshop. That was one of the things that had drawn Hermione to it in the first place. It wasn’t on the main stretch of Diagon Alley, but not so far off that it couldn’t be found either, tucked in one of the smaller alleys. It was the type of place where you could browse the aisles uninterrupted while you searched for the treasures on its shelves.

When Hermione had first inquired about the For Sale sign, the former owner was all too eager to let it go, complaining about how he was ready to retire, and no one really appreciated what it took to run a bookstore. She wasn’t so worried about that, but the practicalities appealed to her.

After finishing her seventh year at Hogwarts, Hermione had struggled to decide what she wanted to do next. While she had offers, tying herself to a desk at the Ministry hadn’t appealed to her. Harry had been happy to allow her to stay at Grimmauld Place with him, but she could only do that for so long. Plus, there was Ginny.

Hermione loved both of her friends, but she figured the young couple would need their own space soon enough. Thus, the fact that there was a perfect-sized flat over the bookshop was a bonus, which meant that Hermione would pay no rent and have no commute to work. Seeing the bookstore as the answer to the question of what she should do, she pooled together the savings she had from selling her parents’ house and dental practice and became the proprietor of Irrepertus.

The shop had been full of both books and dust when she arrived, and short on organisation. Hermione had thrown herself into making sense of it, pouring over the books to better understand the shop’s clientele and the types of books that sold (or didn’t sell). When she bought the shop, many of the customers ordered by mail. Hermione had inherited a brisk trade in hard-to-find and unusual books, and she did her best to help it grow. She also realised why it was such a good place to browse the shelves. While there was a physical shop, it was not often that she had a customer walk through the door. It was both liberating and lonely.

Five years on, Hermione still thought she had made the right choice… most days. She had a lot of time to read and access to any number of books, but at times she missed the banter of other people, especially her friends. Every now and then she imagined what working at the Ministry might have been like. However, the low foot traffic also afforded her the flexibility to set hours that suited her schedule, so she took every opportunity for long lunches with friends and evenings out. Unlike customers who might choose to go elsewhere, the owls could wait a bit.

The shop brought in enough to live on, and over time, she had made changes to broaden the inventory and introduce some Muggle literature to the Wizarding World. Nowadays, the foot traffic was a bit more regular, but still not overwhelming to the point where she felt she couldn’t still pop away to run an errand or two when she needed. She wondered if it might be time to hire an assistant, whether for the company or the help, she wasn’t quite sure.

Hermione had needed a few out-of-the ordinary ingredients for a potion she was making, things that the Apothecary in Diagon Alley wouldn’t necessarily have in stock, or even if it did, she’d rather not have to engage in conversation about why she needed the ingredients and what she might be making with them. That was part of the downfall of being recognisable, limited privacy.

A 14th century book on healing potions had recently fallen into her hands, and the recipes differed from what she was used to working with. One potion in particular sounded rather interesting, but it meant she would need to venture into Knockturn Alley to find a few ingredients so she could try brewing it for herself. She ran upstairs to get her cloak before setting a note in the bookstore window to let any customers know she would return in fifteen minutes.

She wasn’t fearful of venturing into Knockturn Alley. It wasn’t as dangerous as it had seemed when she was in school, but it still wasn’t some place she wanted to be for any longer than she needed to be. However, there were some items that were just easier to get there and some stores that preferred either the lower rents than were charged on the main strip or the higher premiums that could be commanded in exchange for discretion and greater privacy. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and headed down the road, ducking between the buildings that would lead her to Knockturn Alley.

Mulpepper’s wasn’t far. Hermione slipped into the store and grabbed a basket, heading to one of the aisles on the other end of the store where some of the harder to find ingredients were kept. She was just reaching for the jar of powdered dragon claw when a hand reached over her shoulder and grasped it first. She felt someone press against her back and heard a voice in her ear.

“You know, a girl like you could be very dangerous to a man like me.”

The voice held both danger and intrigue. She turned to see who had said such a thing, slipping her wand into her palm as she spun.

Hermione tensed. Standing far, far too close to her was Thorfinn Rowle, one of the former Death Eaters who had served time in Azkaban after the war. She vaguely remembered an article about a year ago when he had been released, having allegedly “seen the error of his ways,” but that didn’t give Hermione any warm fuzzies. While she didn’t know the details of his case, from her interactions with him during the war, she thought the Wizengamot had probably been far too lenient, although she had learned that seemed to be their way all too often, at least, for those with means.

She looked over Rowle’s shoulder, but the shopkeeper was nowhere in sight. She raised her wand, twisting it into his abdomen.

“Step away from me, or I’ll…” 

He cut her off, grabbing her wrist and turning her hand so that her wand was vertical between them and the back of her hand lay on Rowle’s stomach, pinned in his grip.

“No need to be hasty, love. I was just commenting on your appeal. You know I can’t hurt you. I can’t even carry a wand these days… at least one other than the one I always have with me.”

He chuckled and moved her wand hand lower, so she would feel exactly what wand he had meant. She felt his semi-erect penis through his robes and tried to move her hand away, but he held it in place, leaning in to whisper in her ear once more.

His voice was rough. “I’m serious. A pretty girl like you would make me lose all my Galleons.”

Hermione should have been disgusted. She should have turned on her heel and left. She should have done a lot of things, but what she wouldn’t do was be intimidated by the likes of him, a former Death Eater.

She took her free hand and grabbed his crotch, not hard enough to hurt him, but firmly enough so he knew she could. Rowle immediately let go of her other hand and exhaled sharply.

“Even though I’m a Mudblood?” She said through gritted teeth.

Rowle couldn’t move, he couldn’t do anything. She held his safety firmly in her hands. In this position she could drop him to his knees with a squeeze or bring him pleasure with a stroke. She adjusted her grip slightly and watched his eyes flutter closed for just a moment. She could feel that he was fully erect now. Oddly enough, she felt empowered in a way that she had never felt before.

“Oh, love, _especially_ because you are a Mudblood. Who else would be so good at reforming me?”

They both heard the bell above the door sound. Hermione let go of him and stepped back; they were both breathing heavily.

“Think about it. I’d be yours for the taking,” he said as he started to move away.

Hermione stood rooted in place, too shocked to respond and unsure what to make of the last two minutes.

As Rowle walked by the counter, Hermione heard him say to the shopkeeper, “Whatever Miss Granger wants, just put it on my account.”

Oh? Whatever she wanted? She took down the jar of powdered dragon claw she had originally been reaching for and added a few other jars to her basket as well.

Her purchases made, she headed back to her place and changed the sign on the shop to read “Closed.” She Flooed over to Ginny’s, hoping to find her home.

o0o

Just her luck, both Ginny and Susan were sitting on the couch at Grimmauld Place, each cradling a spoon and a pint of ice cream. Hermione chuckled to herself. One did not get in the way of heavily pregnant women and their ice cream; it was asking for trouble.

Ginny noted Hermione’s arrival with a squeal, but neither tried to get up or put down her spoon.

Hermione flopped into the nearest chair, kicking off her shoes and putting her feet up on the ottoman.

“I’ve just had the oddest experience.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Wait, wait. I need wine first.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “Now that’s just mean, Hermione. You know we can’t have any. And besides… it’s three in the afternoon.”

Hermione waved her hand as she headed to the kitchen.

“No, seriously, I need wine.”

She returned to find the two exactly as she'd left them and reclaimed her spot.

“First, I need you both to promise that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Now, Hermione, you know I shouldn’t keep secrets from Ron-”

Ginny cut Susan off, “Well, based on that, I’m going to agree on the juiciness factor alone. Come on, Susan. Don’t be a wuss.”

“Fine.” Susan rolled her eyes and sighed.

Hermione took a large swig, set her glass down on the table beside her and took a deep breath.

“I think I may have just been molested by Thorfinn Rowle.”

“WHAT??” Ginny screeched, jumping off the couch much faster than Hermione thought possible at this stage of her pregnancy.

Susan’s hand stopped midway to her open mouth and the ice cream on her spoon promptly slid off of it and onto her lap.

Hermione raised her hand.

“Sit down, Gin. I’m fine. Let me tell you the story.”

She relayed the tale, leaving out only the fact that she had actually taken Rowle up on his offer to pay for today’s purchases.

At the end of the story, Susan’s mouth was still open and Ginny reached over and closed it for her before handing her a cloth to clean up the ice cream still melting in her lap.

“What in the actual fuck!” exclaimed Ginny.

“But… but he’s a Death Eater,” Susan stammered.

“I know!” Hermione replied. “That’s the part that has me the most confused. Why would he choose to interact with me at all?”

Once Ginny and Susan had recovered from their initial shock, the three sat there dissecting the encounter, trying to make sense of it.

“What a creep,” Ginny eventually declared. “Isn’t he married? His poor wife.”

Susan smacked her forehead, “Of course! He couldn’t have actually done anything to you then.”

Both Ginny and Hermione looked at Susan with puzzled expressions. She raised her left hand and spun her wedding ring around her finger. They still looked puzzled.

Susan preened, happy to know something that they both didn’t.

She explained, “Most pureblood marriages include a fidelity clause. And the Rowles are Sacred Twenty-Eight, so I’m positive his contract would have had one. He can talk all he wants, but he can’t put his penis anywhere other than in his wife. It’s a way of ensuring that pureblood lines remain pure.”

“Well, now I’m even more confused. Why the power play? And what did he mean by all of that then?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Other than he’s a pig? Who knows… perhaps he wants to be your sugar daddy.”

“My what?” Hermione exclaimed.

“You know, maybe he wants to unburden his guilt by ‘making it up to you.’” Ginny explained using air quotes.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing…” Hermione started to say, but at that moment the Floo lit up, and Harry, Ron and Neville stepped through.

One glance at her pregnant friends made sure that the conversation was over. She ended up staying for dinner, although the wheels in her head continued to turn.

o0o

A large bouquet arrived the next morning. She fed the owl a treat and opened the note, curious about who had sent the beautiful arrangement. She didn’t recognise the script.

> _Dear Miss Granger,_
> 
> _My apologies for my behaviour yesterday. I was overcome in the moment and acted rashly. However, I stand by my comment. You, Miss Granger, are exquisite and I would welcome the opportunity to make your acquaintance under more appropriate circumstances. Might you allow me to take you to lunch?_
> 
> _Your servant,_
> 
> _TR_

Hermione re-read the card several times to be sure she had read it correctly. She sighed, gave one last look at the flowers and Incendioed both them and the note. Whatever game Rowle was playing, she had no interest in being part of it.

An hour later, another owl arrived, carrying a bouquet almost twice as large as the first. This card said simply:

> _In case the first bouquet may have met too hasty an end, let me reiterate both my sincerity and my interest._
> 
> _TR_

She sat looking at the bouquet, not wanting to incinerate a second arrangement, but also not wanting to encourage his attention. In the end, she decided to keep them. The arrangement was unusual, but truly beautiful. She looked at the flowers he had selected: gladiolus in many colours, accented with heather and tarragon. She knew the selection was purposeful: sincerity, admiration, interest, just as his note had said.

She set the flowers on the counter. At the very least, she could enjoy their beauty. She didn’t have to interact with Rowle for that.

It was a few days later when an idea occurred to her, as she worked in the bookshop. She wandered over to the section of Muggle books and pulled one from the shelf, Animal Farm. It was a book that she wished was required reading for everyone in the Wizarding World. She took it to the counter and wrapped it up, penning a quick note to accompany the package.

> _Dear Mr Rowle,_
> 
> _I am enclosing your recent order. I hope you enjoy the book and find it enlightening._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _H. Granger, Proprietor, Irrepertus Books_

She smiled to herself as she tied the parcel to the shop owl, expecting that she had heard the last of Thorfinn Rowle.

Thus, she was surprised to receive another note from him only two days later.

> _Dear Miss Granger,_
> 
> _A fascinating choice. Who knew animals could talk? I would welcome the opportunity to discuss it in more detail at a time and place of your choosing. In the meantime, I look forward to my next reading assignment._
> 
> _Your servant,_
> 
> _TR_

She hadn’t expected to receive a response at all, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Surely, he hadn’t missed the subtext of the book; it wasn’t exactly subtle. And yet, he wasn’t put off by it, nor had he taken the opportunity to speak ill of its’ muggle authorship. She wondered whether Rowle actually wanted to talk about it, or if that was just a ruse to get her to agree to meet him. But if he wanted to discuss it, what did that mean?

Hermione went to make herself a cup of tea. She needed to clear her head. This was all too confusing, but also intriguing, and she loved a good mystery.

Later that afternoon, she looked over the shelves once more, selecting another book to wrap up and send. She decided that the opportunity was too good to pass up. If she could convince one former Death Eater of the error of his ways, maybe others could be convinced, too.

Even in the war's aftermath, change was slow to come to Wizarding society, at least, not the changes needed to ensure pureblood prejudice would be put to rest for good. She wasn’t in a position to tackle that, but if she had an opportunity to change one mind, especially one who sported that hateful mark on his forearm, then perhaps there was hope. But first, she told herself that she needed to better understand, and the key to that lay with Rowle, himself.

She penned a note to accompany this book, much like the last one, but added a postscript for good measure.

> _Dear Mr Rowle,_
> 
> _Thank you for your recent order. I hope you enjoy the enclosed book and find it enlightening._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _H. Granger, Proprietor, Irrepertus Books_
> 
> _P.S. If you are interested, there will be a book discussion at 2pm Thursday at The Petersham in Covent Garden._

Now that would show her exactly how interested Thorfinn Rowle was in discussing the book or getting to know her better, as she had invited him to a place in Muggle London — one of her favourite spots for tea. It would require him to travel outside of the bubble of the Wizarding World and interact with the very muggles he seemed to have despised not so very long ago.

If he wanted to see her, nothing said she had to make it easy.

o0o

At 2:05pm on Thursday, Hermione looked up from her book to see a slightly bedraggled Thorfinn Rowle enter the tea shoppe. He seemed relieved when he spotted her and made his way to the table where she was sitting, sat down and closed his eyes without saying a word to her.

Hermione watched him take several deep breaths, getting a better look at him than she had at their last meeting. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a white shirt and tie, not that different from what Wizards wore under their robes. He definitely was dressed more formally than she was, but there was no question of whether what he was wearing was appropriate around muggles.

He was a tall man, roughly 6 feet tall, she thought, with a decent build. She remembered from their brief encounter at Tottenham Court Road how much larger he had seemed back then, when she, Ron and Harry were just beginning their time on the run. She knew he was on the younger side of the Death Eaters she had fought against. Their time at Hogwarts hadn’t overlapped, but they couldn’t have missed each other by much. She guessed he was maybe in his mid-thirties at this point.

She studied his face. His hair was dark blond and styled in a way that she suspected looked more unkempt than it actually was. He also wore a purposeful five o’clock shadow. He wasn’t bad looking, she thought with some surprise; although his time in Azkaban had given his face some lines that would probably not go away.

Eventually, he opened his eyes and looked at her with a curious expression.

“Touché, my dear Miss Granger. This was an inspired move on your part.”

She smirked, thinking it was quite the feat to get someone like him out here in muggle London — on her home turf, so to speak.

“Yet, here you are.”

“Indeed. Some things are worth the effort, I think, you being top among them.”

So, there would be no beating around the bush. She had wondered if there might be far more of a dance to get him to give voice to his intentions.

She looked to find the server and nodded.

“I took the liberty of ordering for us. I hope you don’t mind.”

Rowle raised an eyebrow. “Not at all.”

“So tell me, what parts of the book did you find most interesting?” she began, waiting to see how he would respond, her attention half-turned towards the knife in her place setting.

He reached over and grasped one of her hands and pulled it towards him, which instantly captured her full attention. She looked up from his hand covering hers to find him staring directly at her.

“The most interesting part is the person who sent it to me. The rest — the societal, political and interpersonal dynamics — all pale in comparison.”

So, he had read the book. Uncomfortable with the contact, she pulled her arm back slightly. He released her instantly, and she slid her hand back across the table.

“To be honest, Mr Rowle, I am not sure whether I should be flattered or concerned. It wasn’t too long ago that I was staring down the end of your wand, wondering if I might be drawing my last breath.”

“And yet, Miss Granger, somehow, here we both sit. I like to think Mistress Fate has a wry sense of humour, does she not?”

It seemed to be a rhetorical question, so Hermione did not answer.

“In Azkaban, I had a lot of time to think. I thought about the Dark Lord himself being a half-blood. I’ve thought about the mistakes I have made in my life. And I had a lot of time to think about those who emerged victorious, particularly one young woman who bested me personally at least twice.” Rowle chuckled.“I’ll admit, I was intrigued as to how that could be. But, as you probably know, I am mostly out of circulation these days. When I saw you at that shop last weekend, I rather couldn’t contain myself. I truly am sorry for how I acted… Although, perhaps not entirely, if it has brought us here.”

He paused to allow the server to place an array of sandwiches and desserts on the table. He looked over the choices and selected the ones he found to his liking. 

“I’ve done a lot of work to put the past behind me and adjust to the world in which I now find myself. I can think of no one better to help me with this transition.”

“So that’s what this is? You want a chaperone? A guide?” Hermione narrowed her eyes.

Rowle looked affronted. “You misunderstand, Miss Granger. I wouldn’t waste either your time or mine in that way. The way I see it, you have not only intellect and beauty but also a drive to succeed in a world that hasn’t always been the kindest to you, regrettably, in part at my hand. I, on the other hand, while I have some intellect and also means and connections, what I am lacking is the type of passion that pushes a man to get out of bed in the morning and helps him sleep well at night. Purpose. As I said last weekend, I think you are particularly well suited to help me with this problem. Please, let me get to know you. Let me make amends.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to think. It was quite a declaration, but a declaration of what, exactly, she didn’t know. She pushed back from the table slightly. “And what exactly would your wife think of this, Mr Rowle?”

Rowle’s face darkened for just a moment before he responded, “Your own blood status notwithstanding, I am sure that you are well aware that pureblood marriages are made for many reasons, neither mutual interest nor affection being among them. What I do on my own time is my own business, and not hers. But, rest assured, I’m looking for neither an escort nor a chaperone, Miss Granger. You would set the terms of any engagement between us. Aside from my truly regrettable slip last week, I am not interested in you ever being uncomfortable around me again. And, please know that, as I am required to, I will always remain faithful to my wife.”

So Susan had been right. Clearly, it wasn’t sex he was after. And while she wasn’t exactly sure what it was he wanted from her, she was at least a little intrigued about the possibility. If nothing else, to have a former Death Eater sitting across from her in a muggle tea room spoke to the possibility for them to develop a new relationship, one that didn’t develop over a battlefield. And after all, mutual understanding, isn’t that what she had been fighting for?


	2. Nevermore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm not really an evil author, I'm dropping one more chapter. I'm glad you liked the first one. :)

> _Dear Miss Granger,_
> 
> _I so enjoyed yesterday’s book club discussion. I confess, I shall never look at bacon in quite the same way. Please let me know when the next discussion might be._
> 
> _Your servant,_
> 
> _TR_

Hermione put the note down with a smile and opened the small box that had been attached. It contained four truffles from the teahouse. She had raved over how they were a special treat, but not one she indulged in very often. She wondered if he had returned there after they’d left to get them, braving muggle London once again.

Thorfinn Rowle was full of surprises. Hermione was particularly stunned when he had reached over and took the check from her before she could even view it, pulling out a billfold of crisp banknotes to pay with.

“Miss Granger, you cannot possibly think that I would let you pay when it is I who have gained the most from our time together.”

She set the note down, thinking about what her reply should be. After the tension between them had broken, it had turned out to be an afternoon of lively conversation. Rowle was a steady conversationalist, with a good bit of wit. His speech and mannerisms were rather formal for someone as young as she believed he was, but it was consistent with what she knew of more traditional pureblood families. She went over to the shelves and pulled out a larger book, this one full of pictures of art by the Impressionists.

> _Dear Mr Rowle,_
> 
> _Thank you for your recent order. I thought you might particularly be interested in this book featuring some of the most famous paintings by Charles Monet and others. The National Gallery has a collection of both Impressionist and Post-Impressionist pieces that is particularly worth seeing. Tuesdays at 11am tend to be a quieter time in the gallery, better allowing for reflection on the art._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _H. Granger, Proprietor, Irrepertus Books_

No sooner had the delivery owl had flown off, package in hand, that the door chime sounded, alerting her that someone had entered the bookstore. She approached the counter, but then rushed around it, seeing Ginny waddling up the aisle, her face quite red, mumbling a steady stream of expletives under her breath.

She hugged her friend, directing her to a set of chairs in the back.

“Gin! What are you doing here?”

“If I ever let Harry do this to me again, just shoot me. It’s too hot for this. I have no idea how Mum did this six times. Insanity!”

It didn’t seem that warm, but Hermione cast a quick cooling charm anyway and saw Ginny’s face instantly relax. “Ah… That’s so much better.”

“But what are you doing out and about? I thought you were lying low.”

“I was, but I am tired of being cooped up in the house, waiting and waiting for this child who refuses to arrive. I’ve decided to walk him out!”

Hermione suppressed a laugh. It wouldn’t be wise to tick off an irate, heavily pregnant Ginny Potter. “And where’s Harry?”

“I ditched him back at the Quidditch shop. Wanted to come see how your special project was coming.”

“Special project?”

“You know, D.E.R.P.”

“DERP?”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play dumb with me, Hermione Jean Granger. I know darn well what you do with unanswered questions, even when it may not seem like the smartest thing to do. I’ve kept my mouth shut, but if you want me to continue to, you will spill and you will spill _now_. I would put money on the fact that you’ve had at least some contact with tall, dark and evil, have you not?”

Hermione sighed, “Yes, but what’s DERP?”

Ginny rolled her eyes, “That’s the code name for your Death Eater Rehabilitation Program — D.E.R.P. You’re not the only one who can come up with bad acronyms.”

They both laughed, although Ginny cut hers short to cast another glare in Hermione’s direction.

“And?”

Hermione hesitated, considering how to explain this to her friend. “Well, I guess you could say that we’ve become correspondents.”

“Correspondents? You mean you’ve been writing him letters?”

“Well, not exactly. I send him books.”

Ginny looked unamused. “What kind of books?”

“Muggle literature.”

This Ginny found hilariously funny. She doubled over, laughing as best as her stomach would allow. Catching her breath and wiping her eyes, she confirmed, “You sent him a muggle book?”

Hermione affirmed that she had.

“And you expected him to read it?” Ginny looked like that was in no way possible.

Hermione’s response wiped the remaining smile off of Ginny’s face completely.

“He did.”

“How do you know he did? Because he wrote to you about it.”

Hermione squirmed a bit. “Well, not exactly.”

Ginny fixed Hermione with an intense stare. “What does ‘Not exactly’ mean, Hermione Jean?”

“Actually, we met to discuss the book… over tea.”

Ginny leaned in, “A Death Eater invited you for tea.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I invited a former Death Eater to join me for tea.”

“And where did this take place? Madam Puddifoot’s?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I invited him to tea at The Petersham. I didn’t expect him to take me up on the invitation.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped to the ground. “You’re shitting me. He did? In Muggle London?”

“I promise you, Gin. I’m not. He actually did. Found his way there and everything.”

“Sweet Mother of Merlin. I couldn’t have come up with half of that on my own.”

Ginny sat back in her chair and looked around in the small back room of the shop. Immediately her eyes honed in on the wrapping for the box of chocolates sitting on the worktable behind Hermione. Her eyes narrowed.

“And what are those?”

Hermione felt her face heat, cursing Ginny’s observant nature.

“Just arrived. A thank you for our meeting yesterday.”

“Hmm… Anything else?”

Hermione paused, knowing it would be easier to come clean now than explain the omission.

“Flowers. Upstairs. An apology for the incident last week.”

“You didn’t trash them?”

She bobbed her head. “Actually, I did. I Incendioed the first bouquet, but he guessed I would, so he sent a backup.”

Ginny gave a look that begrudgingly acknowledged approval for his persistence.

“And?” she pressed.

“That’s all.” Hermione admitted.

“Well, fuck me.” Ginny sat stunned.

It was Hermione’s turn to kid. She pointed at Ginny’s stomach and grinned.

“Clearly, Harry already did, Gin.”

“How original are you?” Ginny looked unamused. “So, what are you thinking?”

“I think we may head to the National Gallery next week.”

“The National Gallery,” Ginny was dumbstruck, “in muggle London. Your choice, of course?”

Hermione nodded. “Apparently, I’m the one to set our meetings. He said he doesn’t want me to be uncomfortable.”

“So, you’re actually doing this… Making friends of Death Eaters.”

“Friends? I don’t know about that. I think right now I’m just pushing to see how far one particular Death Eater will go.”

“And you? How far are you willing to go?”

“Please, Gin. Give me some credit. I can’t put my finger on it, but I like the idea of helping anyone become more familiar with the muggle world. If more wizards had been open to the idea, perhaps we could have avoided a lot of pain and heartache. Oh, and besides, Susan was right about the fidelity thing. It’s not sex he’s after… He said so directly. Not that I would open to it in this particular situation, anyway.”

Ginny laughed at her last comment. “My dear, you and I both know there’s an awful lot of ground between where you are and sex, and my guess is that he knows exactly where that line is.”

o0o

Tuesday was a beautiful day. Happy for the sunshine, Hermione put on one of her favourite sundresses and headed to a nearby apparition spot to travel to the National Gallery.

She parked herself on a bench near the front entrance and took out a book to read. However, no sooner had found her page than she heard a throat clear and looked up to see Thorfinn Rowle looking down at her, holding out a hand. “Research?” He asked, as he helped her up.

She tucked her book back into her bag. “It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Your journey was easier this time, I hope?”

“Indeed. If you are going to insist on meeting in muggle London, I figured I should find a way to rise to the occasion.”

He kept her hand in his longer than strictly was necessary, rubbing his thumb across the top of her hand.

Hermione frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean. Where else would we meet? I don’t think there would be much for me to show you in Diagon Alley. There are many more things to do and see in the muggle world.”

“And so you have promised to show me. Although, as I have said, I would meet you anywhere you asked.”

Rowle dropped his hand and placed it on the small of her back, and Hermione felt a frisson of emotion at his touch.

“Please, my dear, lead the way.”

As expected, the gallery was fairly empty. She led him through the different rooms, pointing out pieces that she liked and didn’t like, talking about the artists.

Rowle was mostly quiet, listening to her and looking at the art. Every now and then she would stop at a particular painting and study it.

“What do you think of this one?” he turned to ask her, looking at a Gauguin — one of his Tahitian series.

“I can appreciate his view of the female form, and in portraying it, doing so realistically. I particularly appreciate both the colour of his subjects and how he portrays them. Both are traits lacking in much of the work of many of his peers, or the Impressionists.” She paused, considering how to make the point she wanted. “And, if you think about it, there’s a commonality to the naked form that is universal. This woman could be a witch or a muggle, and one would never know.”

“Indeed.” He turned to face her. “Appreciation of the female form is common to both muggles and wizards alike.”

Suddenly, Hermione felt underdressed in her gauzy sundress, as Rowle’s eyes dipped down and then back up, but the moment was broken when he abruptly held out his arm for her, “Come, let’s walk.”

It was his turn to lead her through the gallery. “You’ve had lunch?” He asked her as they neared the doors.

“Not yet, but I should be getting back to the shop. It is a workday, after all.”

Rowle came to a stop. “Hmm… Will you be missed?”

“If I’m not there, the shop isn’t open.” she explained.

“Then perhaps you need an assistant,” he said, as if it were a simple solution.

She answered him honestly. “I had been thinking about it, but it seems like an unnecessary expense. I’ve been able to handle things on my own.”

“Well then, today we’ll have to make it a quick lunch.” He led her through the doors and around the corner where a black sedan sat waiting. Hermione raised her eyebrow as a man emerged to open the door when he saw the two draw near.

Rowle motioned for her to take a seat. “Please, there’s something I’d like to show you. And if you need to rush away, I promise I won’t object.”

Hermione checked her watch. It was close to 12:30. She had time. The driver shut the door after her, as Rowle walked around to the other side and climbed in.

Hermione sat back and took in the well-appointed vehicle. “So, this is how you made your way today. I thought you seemed too collected to have managed on your own.”

Rowle smirked. “I swore on Thursday I would never do that again.”

“And you found a car service that quickly?” Hermione asked, surprised by his resourcefulness.

“Car service? What’s that?”

Hermione turned to look at him. “Then what is this?”

He looked confused. “My car?”

“You bought a car? Since last week?”

He waved his hand as if it were no big deal. “What else would I have done all week? Clearly, I needed a way to navigate London, and I find this much easier. Don’t you?”

“And a muggle driver?”

Rowle scoffed. “Please, dear. Squib. I haven’t thrown all convention to the wind.”

Hermione tensed. A Squib would know who he was — who she was. It was the last thing she needed — to be linked to Rowle in the Prophet. Rita Skeeter would have a field day. She hadn’t thought all of this through. The wheels in her head started spinning, thinking about what could happen to her.

Rowle leaned into her, his lips close to her ear. “There is no need for you to fret. Anyone in my employ is both well-compensated and discreet. It comes with the job… you understand.”

She thought she might. But then, she wasn’t sure that made her feel any easier about being in the car for different reasons. At least when she travelled on her own, there were plenty of others around. Instead, right now, she had willingly got into a car with someone who she didn’t really know, and was heading to an unknown destination. If Moody saw her now… A posh accent, a bit of flattery, and her misplaced sense of adventure had thrown all her constant vigilance right out the window.

Hermione tried to feel for the wand in her pocket in a way that wouldn’t be obvious, just to know it was there, but clearly her attempt at stealth didn’t work.

She heard him sigh as he sat back. “Heavens, I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.”

She gave him a guilty smile. “If I’m being honest, a little. I guess I wasn’t really thinking when I agreed to lunch. I’ve just enjoyed our outing today and perhaps wasn’t quite ready for it to end.”

He smiled then, a genuine smile. She could see it reach his eyes. “I’m glad to hear you say that. For I have enjoyed our time together, as well.” He looked at her earnestly. “I have a small surprise for you, but as always, it is up to you. I believe we’ve almost arrived.”

Hermione frowned, considering his words. “I don’t need a gift from you.”

He looked affronted. “Who said anything about a gift? I said a surprise. One does not necessarily mean the other.”

She felt off-kilter. He was so different from anyone she knew: a mixture of formality and familiarity. It was as Ginny said; she enjoyed unravelling a mystery, and Thorfinn Rowle was certainly a mystery to her.

o0o

As the car slowed, Hermione realised where she was. She turned to look at Thorfinn as the driver stepped out and walked around to open her door. “Somerset House?”

“Have you been?” He inquired, as he joined her, looking up at the impressive structure before them.

“I’ve been ice-skating here in the winter, but I’ve never been inside.”

He looked pleased. “I’m glad to hear that.”

He held out his arm for her again, leading her towards an entrance way.

She gasped when she saw the sign at the door. “The Courtauld Gallery?”

Thorfinn bit back a smile. “Lunch. We’re having lunch, my dear. It’s only the venue that is your surprise.”

He held open the door and ushered her inside, where an older man stood waiting. “Ah, Mr Rowle, welcome. Please, let me show you to your table.”

The gentleman led them through the main hall, dodging patrons until he stepped around a set of ropes with a sign that stated that this part of the gallery was currently closed. Hermione was deeply curious. All the while, she again felt the gentle pressure of Thorfinn’s hand on the small of her back, however his hand didn’t stray. Hermione was torn — she very much wanted to stop and look at the art on the walls, paintings she had never seen in person. She had always meant to visit the Courtauld Gallery, but she had never made it, and now she was here under such unusual circumstances. Thorfinn must have sensed her inner conflict. “In time, dear Miss Granger. Let’s make it to our destination, first.” He chuckled.

They passed through two more rooms before entering a room with a table set for two, right in the midst of the gallery. The man who had led them stood to the side, waiting patiently, and pulled out a seat for her as she approached the table.

She went to sit, but stopped. There, right above the table, hung Gauguin’s _Nevermore_. She gasped and turned to look at Thorfinn, who seemed rather amused.

“I take it you like the surprise?” He winked at her.

“I’ve only ever seen it in books.”

She stepped back to see it from a better viewpoint, taking in the naked woman lounging on the bed, and the large black bird, seemingly out of place, which gave the painting its name.

Thorfinn nodded at the man who uncovered their lunches and then left without another word, leaving Hermione to examine the work to her heart’s content, stepping up close so she could examine the brushstrokes and the colours, the ornate background and the pops of colour both on the subject’s lips and on her feet.

When she had taken a good look, he gestured for her to sit before taking his own seat.

She was amazed. “You planned all of this?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing.”

Hermione disagreed. This wasn’t nothing. She wasn’t aware of anyone ever having lunch in the midst of an art gallery, especially in the middle of the day when it was open, and for it to be Thorfinn Rowle who had brought her here. This was far more significant than he was acknowledging. 

He poured them each a glass of wine from the bottle on the table. “I’m sure you know that pure-blood wizards are not entirely dismissive of muggle culture. There are things of sufficient quality that transcend any differences. Wine, for example,” he explained, holding up his glass. His eyes twinkled, “And art.”

Hermione blushed, realising her mistake. Here she thought she was exposing him to something new and different, hopefully showing him how muggle things had worth — that there were things that anyone should appreciate. Instead, he had been the one to bring her where she had never been before.

“So, you’ve been here before?” she asked, feeling rather foolish.

He shook his head, smiling. “Never.”

“But then how…” she started, but he waved his hand again.

“Resources, Miss Granger. As I explained, I am perfectly willing to employ them if it means I get to see your face light up as it just did.”

“But the Gauguin? How did you…” her voice trailed off, as she tried to understand the implications of his statement. Still, she was curious about why they were sitting under this particular painting.

“You did send me a book on the Impressionists and Post Impressionists. Was I not supposed to read it? I simply arranged to see one of the paintings that I found especially fetching.” He paused and said in a softer tone, “Just like you.”

Hermione was once again taken aback by both by his insight, as well as his forwardness, but she didn’t feel threatened. It was simple flattery. She took a sip of wine and found her voice.

“There’s actually a fair bit of controversy over Gauguin — how much of his art romanticised paedophilia and exploited the native Tahitians, and his treatment of underaged girls. While his art may be appreciated, it’s hard to separate the man from his actions.”

Thorfinn looked equal parts intrigued and concerned. “Is that what you think? Can you separate the man from his actions?”

He stared at her, waiting for an answer.

“I cannot condone his exploitation and abuse, but the art itself has always spoken to me. It means something to me to see brown bodies as subjects on canvas. It’s so rare in the art around us.” She waved her hand, referencing the other pieces in the room. “Gauguin, the man, is far more complicated. Some say he was a product of his time. I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Thorfinn leaned forward, as if hanging on her every word.

She swallowed. All of a sudden they seemed to be discussing much more than the painting on the wall beside them.

“Generally, I don’t think that people should be defined by their worst act, but nor should they pretend it didn’t happen.” She shrugged, feeling the weight of her words and what she considered to be her own worst act. “I guess we’re all complicated in one way or another. Perhaps it’s by taking the time to get to know each other, that we find ways to understand and reframe those complexities.”

Lunch was a relatively quiet affair after that. Hermione kept her eyes on her plate, considering what she had said and how he may have taken it. She hadn’t wanted to offend her lunch partner, but like Gauguin, she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook, either. For all his charm and easy conversation, she couldn’t forget that he had fought for the Dark Lord. Whatever his reasons had been, she wasn’t entirely ready to look past that just yet.

As she was finishing, Thorfinn glanced down at his watch.

“Ah, my dear Miss Granger, I’m afraid I must take my leave. Duty calls.”

She started to stand, but he stopped her. “No, please don’t get up. There’s no need for you to rush off. The gallery is at your disposal for the remainder of the afternoon, and I would feel rather gratified to think of you wandering the halls, even if I can’t be here with you.” He held out his hand to her, cordially. “May I?”

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that he would bow and bring her hand to his lips. She hadn’t been kissed on the hand often, nor did she remember it being accompanied by the feeling of butterflies in her stomach.

As Thorfinn stood, he looked deeply into her eyes. “Thank you, Miss Granger, for a delightful outing.”

“Mr Rowle, I should be thanking you.”

“No, you never need to thank me. I’m only treating you as you should be treated. Can I send my driver back to collect you?”

She shook her head. “No, I can get home from here. There’s an Apparition Point not too far.”

He didn’t seem entirely comfortable with her answer, but stepped back and nodded curtly. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Granger. I hope to see you again soon.”

Hermione sat there, thinking through the circumstances in which she found herself, all alone with one of the storied collections of art. All thoughts of returning to the bookstore had long ago disappeared. Instead, Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the closed section of the gallery admiring the paintings and drawings. She couldn’t fathom what it had taken to pull this off, and again she was reminded of the difference between her reality and his.

This was why the Wizengamot wasn’t inclined to leave the heirs of pureblood families to languish in Azkaban indefinitely. They still had a duty to society. The inequity of that stung, but what could she do, except try to open the mind of one wizard to what life was like outside of the bubble that wizards, and especially pure-bloods, created around themselves.

o0o

Upon returning to the shop, she found three owls waiting for her. Two were carrying letters, either book requests from customers or payments, while the third carried a small parcel with a note tied to it. She set the two letters aside and turned her attention to the parcel, opening the note first.

> _My dear Miss Granger,_
> 
> _I apologise I had to take my leave so suddenly. I feel as if I cheated myself out of time I could have spent with you._
> 
> _I recognise you said you needed no gifts from me. On this one point, I will choose not to listen. I so very much want to spoil you. Please permit me to. It is nothing less than you deserve._
> 
> _Your servant,_
> 
> _TR_

Hermione unwrapped the parcel and found a very old book. The cover itself was blank, so she opened it to the title page. Her breath caught as she read the title, _The Raven and Other Poems_ by Edgar Allan Poe, and then saw the publishing date of the book was 1845 and gasped. She was holding a first edition of Poe’s collected poems. The book dealer in her quickly calculated what such a treasure might be worth. Another part of her, however, wondered what she had done to inspire such a gift and more importantly, what exactly Thorfinn Rowle’s intentions were.


End file.
